


see through my skin

by misslemonbar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslemonbar/pseuds/misslemonbar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Cas turns his cheek into the side of Dean’s neck and looks at him knowingly in the mirror, pulling his hands from Dean’s pockets and hooking his fingers underneath the dress shirt cuffs.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You aren’t backing out of this,” Cas says, fingers smoothing the material and minutely adjusting Dean’s cufflinks.  ”You’ve worked too hard for it. I will not let you give up now.”</i>
</p>
<p>Or, Cas helps Dean get ready for a new opportunity (and there is a sickening amount of adorable).</p>
            </blockquote>





	see through my skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [castiels-dean.tumblr.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=castiels-dean.tumblr.com).



> A drabble-turned-oneshot prompted by [this gif](http://25.media.tumblr.com/ee4909ac8378d0ea2a46a6aee0c59f2e/tumblr_mffs97VkBG1ql1mowo1_500.gif), for my shameless enabler [Alie](http://castiels-dean.tumblr.com).
> 
> What started off as a cute little ficlet morphed into a giant, rampaging AU in my head. There will probably be a terrifying amount of backstory at some point (because I am in love with this 'verse already).
> 
> Title from Charles Bukowski's _Notes of a Dirty Old Man_ (see end notes for details).

Dean’s adjusting his tie in front of the mirror when he hears Cas say, from close behind him;

“I told you we should have done the ironing last night.”

Dean’s hands spasm on his half-windsor as he jumps, and looks up into the mirror to see Cas standing loosely towards his left side, expression carefully blank.

“Cas, we talked about this,” says Dean, though he’s trying very hard not to smile. He can hear the dishwasher rumbling against the kitchen floor downstairs, and Cas’ hands are still damp and covered in suds from where he rinsed the plates.

Cas tilts his head to look at Dean in the mirror, and narrows his eyes as he steps forward to pluck at Dean’s (admittedly wrinkled) shirt.

“Dean,” he says disapprovingly, voice raspy from lack of sleep, “You can’t give a lecture with a creased shirt. Besides - “

“It’s fine,” Dean cuts in, and he doesn’t need to be able to see Cas’ scowl to know that interrupting him is a sure road toward pissing him off. “I’m only talking to a bunch of community college students about 20th Century Humanist Literature. They’ll all be asleep, hungover or dressed like Hanson rejects.”

He tugs at his collar and grins into the mirror, cocksure. “Tell me I don’t look a million dollars, anyway,” he says to Cas, who’s lost the constipated expression somewhat. The tension around the corners of his lips betray the exasperated fondness he leaks all over the place whenever Dean does something stupid. Dean is well aware of how adorable he is whenever he’s being a bit of an ass.

Cas takes a little step to the right to stand behind him, and he leans back into Cas when he slides his hands deep into Dean’s pants pockets to pull them together. Dean’s ass fits perfectly into the divots of Cas’ pelvis, just above his groin, and he can feel the press of Cas’ collarbones against his shoulder blades.

Cas is warm all down his back, and Dean brings his hands down to rest on Cas’ through the material of his pockets. They’re still cold and a little wet from the sink, and Dean rubs them with the flat of his palms even as they spread dampness through his trousers. Cas breathes softly against the back of his neck.

“Dude,” Dean complains, attempting to sound petulant but still warming Cas’ hands through the fabric, “You can’t bitch about my creased shirt, then stick your soapy hands in the pockets of my clean pants. Not cool.”

Cas’ eyes hide a well of amusement. ”I concede the point,” he says, and tucks his chin over Dean’s shoulder. Dean totally doesn’t lean his head back so he can press his forehead against Cas’ temple.

Dean watches them both in the mirror for a moment. Himself, in his new suit pants and tie, and Cas with his ugly old grey t-shirt and jeans, black socks poking out from where the hem is just a little too long. Dean loves those jeans - Cas is terminally unable to buy clothes in the right size, but this particular pair make his ass look like something sculpted by angels, even though they don’t fit him properly anywhere else.

Dean wishes, for a moment, that he was back in his worn denims and plaid (but not like the ugly tablecloths that Sam wears).

Cas turns his cheek into the side of Dean’s neck and looks at him knowingly in the mirror, pulling his hands from Dean’s pockets and hooking his fingers underneath the dress shirt cuffs.

“You aren’t backing out of this,” Cas says, fingers smoothing the material and minutely adjusting Dean’s cufflinks. "You’ve worked too hard for it. I will not let you give up now.”

Dean looks back at Cas and thinks about how he got his GED at seventeen; about how he read secondhand copies of Greek Tragedies and Vonnegut while working full time at Bobby’s auto-shop, how Sam gave him a copy of  _Notes of a Dirty Old Man_  after Dad had died and he read it over and over until the spine fell off. He remembers Bobby persuading him (mostly by confiscating his six-packs and yelling) to go to college, or take up a class, or travel, or something that wasn’t fixing up shitty old cars for cents; and he remembers enrolling in an Electronic Engineering course at the local community college, with a minor in English and North American Literature that he didn’t tell anyone about.

Dean remembers the bravest thing he ever did - switching his degree fully over to literature, while Bobby and Sam spluttered and made disapproving faces and complained about  _a_   _degree in literature not being a useful life skill, Christ, Dean._ He remembers Sam’s confusion, Bobby’s gruff encouragement; but mostly he remembers Cas’ unwavering belief in him. Cas was the one who listened when Dean couldn’t keep everything locked up any longer, who fiercely refused to let him give up when advisor after advisor told Dean he didn’t meet the requirements.

(He remembers the night when Cas had come over to find him drunk and despondent, having reached the point where he'd given up and refused to believe for even a second longer than he could be any more than a two-bit mechanic in a backwater town. Cas had finally snapped, had fought back against all of Dean’s self-pitying spiel and had thrown him against the wall when Dean was too drunk to even stand.

_“You are not the burnt and broken shell of a man that you believe yourself to be, Dean Winchester,”_  he had hissed with brilliant, burning fury, and how could Dean not love this man, this man who had such absolute faith in him? Dean should be terrified of him, he who had blazed into his life among fire and destruction and death; the paramedic who had held his chest cavity together with nothing more than his bare hands, who had told him “ _You deserve to be saved_ ,” with Dean’s blood soaking his uniform up to the elbow, even as Dean had moaned for him to  _go and save the others, save everyone else, everyone but_ him.

Cas had uprooted him, shaken the foundations of his very existence, and Dean should have run for the hills.)

Dean looks back at Cas in the mirror, and thinks about how much shit they have been through to get here. Dean no longer repairs beaten-up motors for cut price rates; he’s got his degrees, his bookbinding business, his baby brother, his batshit extended-though-not-related-by-blood-but-that-ain’t-stopping-them family, his car (his baby girl) - and Cas. 

Dean had never expected anyone to take an interest in his passion for literature outside of his technical abilities, but a request for him to lecture as an alumni at his old college is an opportunity to show the world that there is more to Dean Winchester than classic rock, a boot full of tools and an insatiable appetite (which swings between pie and sex relatively equally).

Dean gently tugs his cuffs out of Cas’ grip so he can hook his fingers with his own, and he feels Cas relax against his spine.

“I’m going to be awesome,” Dean scoffs, and Cas smiles against his neck, stubble a welcome itch against Dean’s skin.

“You will, indeed, be ‘awesome’,” Cas replies, and Dean laughs at the brush of Cas’ fingers against his palms as he attempts to make air quotation marks without removing his hands from Dean’s.

“Even with a creased shirt?” Dean says, raising an eyebrow because he’s still an asshole, and Cas furrows his own brow.

“Your shirt will not hinder your performance, Dean; only possibly affect your audience’s impression of your skills in choosing suitable attire for particular situations.”

“ _Cas_ , c’mon, they wont care,” says Dean, long-suffering - but Cas’ face has become carefully blank, and Dean groans. "Don’t  _do_  that!” he grumbles, yanking on their joined sets of hands and setting them both off balance, staggering against each other.

Cas is laughing, quiet little chuckles that Dean loves (and will do anything to get) as they stumble briefly on the carpet; Cas’ knee bangs into the back of his, and Dean’s pretty sure that he just elbowed Cas rather painfully in the bicep. Cas pulls one of his hands free to press underneath Dean’s ribs for balance, arm curved around his waist. His breath is warm against Dean’s ear as he speaks.

“All I was ever going to say,” Cas murmurs, slightly out of breath and smiling, “Was that you should have worn the white shirt instead of the blue.”

Dean laughs properly this time, deep from his belly, and throws his head back onto Cas’ shoulder as he does. “Cas,” he says, and he’s definitely not giggling, “If I’d worn the white shirt, you wouldn’t have let me out of the house.” Dean leers against Cas’ temple.

“ _And_ ,” he says, tone lascivious, “We would have scarred Sam for life when he would’ve come in to check I was all packed and ready for school.”

“I think saying that we scarred him _again,_ would be more accurate,” Cas says into his collar, and Dean can see the little smirk he’s trying to hide with Dean’s tie.

“That was all your fault,” Dean says, freeing his other hand to help tuck a corner of his shirt back into his pants, and straightens his tie. “I did want to make sure that I had a wrinkle-free shirt for the morning, but you were the one who had to walk in dripping wet and completely naked. What else was I supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to commiserate with me on Sam’s inability to use a normal amount of towels, and iron your clothes,” says Cas, and slaps Dean’s hand away to readjust his collar himself, “Instead of instigating several rounds of enthusiastically athletic sex.”

Dean’s resulting smirk is smug with self-satisfaction.

“Hell yes I 'commiserated’ with you,” he says, pressing his ass back against Cas’ groin. Cas’ hand slides back down his sternum, the fingers on the other hooked in Dean’s belt loops to keep them pressed together. Dean gives a gentle little roll of his hips, nothing more than expressing interest in how he can feel Cas tight against him, and Cas inhales sharply through his nose.

“Dean,” he says, low; half warning, half tease. Dean sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, no boning before work, I know the rules,” he says, giving Cas’ hand on his chest a quick squeeze before stepping away to pull on his suit jacket.

He adjusts the ends of his sleeves. “There,” Dean says, tilting his chin up, “I got this.”

Cas steps forward to press out a non-existent wrinkle in the shoulder of his jacket.

“Thanks for drying my hands,” he says, deadpan, and pats one of the still slightly-damp front pockets on Dean’s trousers. Dean snorts and gives his tie a final tug.

He turns to pick up his - now slightly tatty - briefcase that had been a present from Sam when Dean had first started up his bookbinding business, and it’s the only bag aside from a rucksack that he doesn’t feel stupid carrying. As he flips open the top to triple-check he’s got everything packed (notes, reference texts, USB with his presentation, BLT sandwiches, Dad’s mechanic journal, Dean’s own bookbinding planner, and a slice of rhubarb pie he’d pilfered from Sam’s fridge), Cas steps forward to smooth the lapels of his jacket. It's ridiculously domestic, and Dean fucking loves it.

Cas tilts his head in that hilariously endearing way and looks directly at Dean.

“You got this,” he says, Dean’s own words falling awkwardly from his tongue the way they always do, and he presses a brief kiss to Dean’s cheek. It’s dry, and his stubble is rough against Dean’s freshly shaved skin, and it eases some of the terror-induced nausea that has been cramping his stomach.

Dean looks at Cas. He feels the leather of his bookbag in his hand, the weight of the keys to his baby in his jacket pocket. In the mirror, out of the corner of his eye, he can see the reflection of the photographs Sam insisted on plastering all over the hall wall through the open door of the room they're staying in.

There are photographs of him and Sam as kids with scowling faces and dirty knees; photographs of the both of them and Bobby at his auto-shop, photographs of Ellen and Jo and Ash at the Roadhouse, where he and Sam both learned to drink (until Ellen caught them and smacked them hard round the head). There are photographs of both his and Sam’s graduations, of Jo’s induction as a Police Officer; there are even photos of Cas, mostly in a collage compromised from the snapshots they send Sam whenever Dean's clients have them travel somewhere new or interesting. There’s even a framed photograph, its burnt and scarred surface protected by glass, of John and Mary Winchester holding their boys before the fire.

Dean sees it all, feels it all, and thinks;

_I’ve got **this.**_

**Author's Note:**

>  _[Notes of a Dirty Old Man](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Notes_of_a_Dirty_Old_Man)_ is a collection of underground newspaper articles written by Charles Bukowski, and published in 1969. Bukowski was known for his writing about subjects such as working class poverty, alcoholism and his relationships with women, and _Notes_ in particular is an exploration of his own life with brutal honesty and crude humour. His popularity (and part of the reason I feel Dean is drawn to him) is very well articulated by Adam Kirsch (a poet and literary critic for _The New Yorker_ ), who wrote that _"... the secret of Bukowski's appeal... [is that] he combines the confessional poet's promise of intimacy with the larger-than-life aplomb of a pulp-fiction hero."_
> 
> I am very particular about characterisations of Dean Winchester, because he so very often gets painted as the brawn to Sam's brains, and seen as nothing more than a practically-illiterate jock with a hidden geeky side to him in AU's; when, in fact, the show makes numerous references to the fact that Dean is not only in possession of exceptional intelligence, but is very well-read. [texasbowlegs](http://texasbowlegs.tumblr.com)' post on tumblr, entitled _['Dean Winchester is many things, but Stupid isn't one of them'](http://texasbowlegs.tumblr.com/post/10501478005/dean-winchester-is-a-lot-of-things-but-stupid-isnt)_ is one of my favourite pieces of meta in the fandom, and is an excellent overview of examples in the show where Dean's intelligence has been demonstrated. Dean, in fact, makes a Bukowski reference in episode 5.22, _'Swan Song'_.
> 
> The quote I used for the title is, in full;
> 
> _"Can't they see through my skin, can't they see that I am nothing?"_


End file.
